My new passion: homemade ice cream

I don't know how it happened... ever since I experimented with that peach gelato recipe, I've become addicted. I can't stop thinking about new recipes or checking Craig's List for a good, cheap ice cream maker. Until then I'm borrowing my friend's amazing Cusinart ice cream maker and fantasizing about all sorts of Ben & Jerry's flavors. This weekend it was Milky Way, with chunks of the candy bar swirled in. Next week I've already decided: mint oreo. I even have the ingredients. There's just something about the texture and quick melting of homemade ice cream. It's rich and smooth and pure flavor. I'm dying to try fresh blueberry, since it is the season.

I think my love for ice cream comes from my grandmother. I love hearing stories of ice cream on the farm--they would each get a half a cantelope and fill it with homemade ice cream, then eat to their heart's content. I can just imagine the lazy summer days in Duncan on the Gila River, staying up late to talk and play games and sing. When I was little whenever any of us were sick, Grandad would bring over a McDonald's milkshake, saying it was the doctor's orders. I think those milkshakes were always the best medicine. On my mission we used to stop for gelato every day in the summer, and sometimes even in the winter. In Palermo they eat ice cream in a brioche--like a roll. So good! Maybe we can try that this weekend, too.

Ice cream just makes everything ok. One day I'm going to figure out how to make my favorite Italian gelato: nocciola (hazelnut). Or then there's frutta di bosca (a wonderful medley of berries). Oh--and nutella ice cream! Or a cone with nutella AND nocciola... oh the possibilities are endless!

A Bountiful Harvest

Yesterday morning I went to the farmer's market in Old Town Alexandria for the first time--and it immediately became one of my favorite events that I want to go to every Saturday. There were all sorts of stands from farms mostly in West Virginia, with all sorts of fruits and vegetables--tomatoes the size of my face, peaches, corn, cantelope, apples, cucumbers, berries, watermelons--and baked goods, jams, jellies, breads, rolls, cinnamon rolls. And then the flowers--sunflowers, daisies, herbs. I was overwhelmed with the colors, the smells, and the tastes--every stand had samples. It was amazing.

So of course I bought a bunch of stuff--I was so excited for garden tomatoes that I almost cried. I have been afraid to plant anything around here because of the darn squirrels. I had to take a picture of our purchases.

I told my friend about my outing, and she told me about her favorite thing about living in Omaha a few years ago. Every Sunday during the summer harvest season, people would bring their excess to the church kitchen and it was a free-for-all. Every week, she picked up tomatoes and corn, and she dropped off her offering--usually brownies or cookies. What a great system.

This morning I found a new favorite passage in the Old Testament, Leviticus 26:
3 ¶ If ye ^awalk in my statutes, and ^bkeep my commandments, and do them;

4 Then I will ^agive you ^brain in due season, and the land shall yield her increase, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit.

5 And your threshing shall reach unto the vintage, and the vintage shall reach unto the sowing time: and ye shall eat your bread to the full, and dwell in your land safely.

6 And I will ^agive ^bpeace in the land, and ye shall lie down, and none shall make you afraid: and I will rid evil beasts out of the land, neither shall the sword go through your land.

7 And ye shall chase your ^aenemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword.

8 And five of you shall chase an hundred, and an hundred of you shall put ten thousand to flight: and your enemies shall fall before you by the sword.

9 For I will ^ahave respect unto you, and make you fruitful, and multiply you, and establish my covenant with you.

10 And ye shall eat old store, and ^abring forth the old because of the new.

11 And I will set my tabernacle among you: and my soul shall not abhor you.

12 And I will ^awalk ^bamong you, and will be your ^cGod, and ye shall be my ^dpeople.

13 I am the LORD your God, which brought you forth out of the land of Egypt, that ye should not be their bondmen; and I have broken the bands of your ^ayoke, and made you go upright.

Oh, Bean!

Ben outside the Supreme Court

When my brother Ben was little, he was playing one day with a little neighbor girl, Rachel Harrison. Who knows what kind of monkey business the two were up to when for some strange reason, a dresser fell on Ben. Little Rachel was so worried that she shrieked, "Oh, Bean, are you ok? Bean?" She was a little confused--but we like to repeat the phrase.

Ben stopped by for a quick visit this weekend. He had just finished a 6-week internship in Vermont with an outdoor magazine, where he camped in his truck the whole time. I was quite impressed with his resourcefulness and ability to save money--he showed me his whole set-up with a big tank of propane for his stove, his mountain bike, his bed--it all fit nicely. He made friends with the old man who ran the campground and offered to do work in exchange for a free stay and use of their showers--he actually built a huge fire ring after his day job. One week it rained for almost a week straight. Ben would finish his day's work, then go sit in his cab until he rigged up a tarp so he could at least fire up his stove in the back of the truck. I have to hand it to him--he certainly knows how to make things work.

We had a great time--seeing the monuments at night, touring the Capitol, the Museum of the American Indian, and the Air and Space Museum, and wandering around Georgetown. I love this kid.

La Festa di Pesca

It just sounds so much better in Italian than in English--The Peach Fest. But that's what we had last night. 'Tis the season, and I'm a believer! Jessica grilled pork chops with a peach glaze and made this amazing peach salsa with avocado and tomatoes. We added a green salad and grilled green and yellow squash for color and vitamins. For dessert, Suzanne made this amazing peach crisp with blueberries, and I found a recipe for peach gelato (no ice cream maker necessary) that I of course had to try. It turned out delightful! The perfect texture--oh the Italian memories--and great flavor. And it was so easy... now I want to try it with other fruits. Do you think it would work with watermelon?!?

3 pounds peaches, peeled and pitted
1/4 cup fine sugar
1/2 cup yogurt (the recipe called for mascarpone or yogurt. I just used vanilla yogurt).

Cut up the fruit--the smaller chunks the better. Place on a cookie sheet and freeze until frozen solid (about 2 hours). Grind in blender with sugar, then add yogurt. Blend until smooth. Place in a container and return to freezer for 20 to 30 minutes before serving. If the ice cream freezes all the way through, put it through the blender before serving.

So my tender mercy is this: Enjoy the season!

Rain, rain, and more rain

How do I get myself into the most random, precarious situations? Last Friday I was at work and it started pouring rain. I laughed when my friend mentioned that she hates the rain and she wished it would stop soon. I told her that we really needed the water... grass is dying all over the place around here and they've declared a drought emergency in Maryland.

Those words came back to haunt me. I was supposed to meet my co-workers at Happy Hour at Artie's in Fairfax. They all left a little early, when the rain cleared up a bit, but I wanted to put in a full 8 hours of work. I thought if it was still raining I would grab the old CHNM extra umbrellas in the storage closet and be fine.

Unfortunately, we have a new admin who actually locks the storage closet. And it was raining hard--like crazy--small rivers forming everywhere. I had parked far far away in the student parking lot. And I was wearing a cute little summer skirt and white blouse. I sat in the lobby waiting for the rain to slow down, thinking I didn't really want to go to Happy Hour and pretend like I was having fun with a bunch of tech geeks who were drinking up a storm. Then I got into a conversation with a random lady, who offered me a ride to my car... and yes, friends, I accepted a ride with a stranger. Her name was Tippi, but her real name was Elthenia, because her mother loves names that start with E. She drove a minivan with a bunch of really great shoes sitting in the front seat. And just when I thought she was going to kidnap me and sell me to the gypsies, she actually drove me as close to my car as possible and I jumped out without getting too wet...

It's true... I'm official... I'm a Virginian

I did it... I got a Virginia driver's license and registered my car here. No more Utah Delicate Arch plates. I have to admit, I have mixed feelings about this. I embrace my East Coast identity, but I did like my Utah past. For those of you who ride in my car, you'll often hear me exclaim, "I'm from Utah!" when I am not entirely graceful in my driving or when I'm obviously lost. No more excuses now. I'm actually super excited. And the best part is that I thought I'd have to pay upwards near of a million dollars to register here in Arlington County, but I was pleasantly surprised. Virginia isn't so bad after all...

Art for Art's Sake

Sometimes I think we forget to take advantage of the things surrounding us. I am completely embarrassed to admit that in the 11 months that I have been here, the only Smithsonian museum I've visited is the National Portrait Gallery. Hello! For some reason the Potomac River has became an impassable barrier... at least for art. I go into the District all the time to meet friends for dinner, or for a movie, or to eat pizza behind the Lincoln Monument, or to go running along the tidal basin or the National Mall. But for some unexplainable reason I haven't embraced the Smithsonian.

Yesterday I met a friend in the District. We had hoped to see the exhibit at the Ripley Center on the French and Indian War, but alas, neither one of us had looked at the fine print (it closed 15 July). Instead we wandered through two museums that otherwise I probably would have never visited. First stop was the Freer Gallery--Asian Art. I loved the soothing calm of the Buddhas and the tranquil scenes on Japanese silk screens. And the James Whistler Peacock Room was incredibly rich and ornate.

Then we headed over to the Hirshorn Museum. Josh told me I'd probably hate it because it's contemporary art. Some of it, it's true, I didn't really understand. But there were some fascinating photographs and invigorating art--the kind that inspires conversation and questions and intrigue with color and texture. My favorite was this giant canvas of stripes--the colors were great and I loved the different shades and varying widths. There wasn't any more than that--but I was completely drawn in by the colors playing off of each other in very straight, linear ways.

So I really do need to take more advantage of everything around me...

Overdue Library Books and Tender Mercies

So this is a really great story... and somehow a really great tender mercy. Last semester I had a run-in with the Mason Library. I have come to depend greatly upon book-due notices in my email. At Mason, they hand you a slip of paper in the book with the due date, which I always either use as a bookmark or use as a bookmark in another book or just lose. Fall semester (and at every other program I've been in) they sent out overdue notices BEFORE the book was due. I always managed to stay on top of things. Last semester, though, there was a glitch in the computer and I had an overdue book. I tried to talk myself out of the exorbitant fine and was squashed in the face by a really mean (though young and male) librarian.

One of the great parts of the Mason Library system is that although they have a somewhat poor collection, they are part of the Washington Research Library Consortium and you can check out books from any university around, which they'll deliver to the Mason Library.

Well as you may know, it's been a crazy couple of months for me with the end of the semester and all the family stuff going on. Sunday night I was digging through a pile and found a WRLC library book due 13 June. Yikes! If you're overdue on WRLC books, they'll give you a fine and revoke your borrowing privileges, something not too appealing while I'm still in the beginning of my program.

And here's where the tender mercies come in. The power went out at work yesterday, so I took the opportunity to run over to the library. I saw Mean Librarian guy outside smoking, so I ran in like a flash to return the book before he unleashed his fury. I apologized from the bottom of my heart to the guy in there, who told me he was not the Spanish Inquisition, and then reminded me that it had been due 13 June. He checked the computer, and there was magically no fine! And no repercussions! I like to think of it as Grandad looking out for me since I was looking out for him...

I love Experts

So this may be a bit random, but I love friends who are experts. My grad school colleague Misha used to do lighting for community theater and college theater in Washington and northern California. On Wednesday she and I went to Wolf Trap to see Camelot, a delightful experience. Not only was it a beautiful summer evening (not hot or humid! and it's July! and it only rained for 10 minutes during the intermission!), and the music and plot were great (so sad! and yet so hopeful!). I loved hearing Misha explain all the lighting and sets and back stage activity. It was like my own private tour from my grass seat without even moving. I learned all about scrims and screens and heard all sorts of stories about some very creative ways she rigged together special effects. Very cool.

Yesterday, a whole bunch of us gathered at our friend Carrie's house. She has experienced some horrible grief over the past couple of weeks, and she's now at of town at a funeral. We cleaned and repaired and planted flowers. While I think Brad was the only real expert there (he actually knows how to fix anything--and I love that I can call him for the most random repair work), the rest of us were experts in doing whatever we could to express our love and concern for Carrie. It was incredible to watch--so many trips to Lowe's to buy Magic Erasers and flowers and mulch and weed killer--scrubbing walls and the fridge and every window around. People even went the extra mile and mowed the back lawn and trimmed the neighbors' edges. The place looked incredible.

I have a good friend who is an expert at computer security, and she is coming over sometime this week to help me configure my laptop. Another friend is an amazing scriptorian, and she always seems to have the perfect scripture for my Sunday School lesson. I also draw upon amazing cooks, people with impeccable fashion sense (i.e. flashy red shoes for my birthday), quilters, web developers, and historians. I LOVE watching people in their own element and drawing from their talents.

I'll be honest... I hate mice

I used to think that I am a very clean person. I also used to think that mice flourish in dirt and filth. I used to think a lot of things, including mice come into the house in the winter. Those presumptions are all fading away...

Last night a mouse ran boldly past me and my roommate from the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. It wasn't like it was sneaking stealthily from corner to corner, dodging past shadows and creeping around corners. No. It was as bold as can be, as if it had every right to parade through our nice, clean, neat suburban lives. We've had glimpses of it before, but always hoped it was just a figment of the crazed imagination. But no, folks, it's real. And it's invading my life.

During the two years I lived in New York City, I had a similar encounter with a mouse in our Harlem apartment. I had always heard stories about rats as big as cats in Manhattan, and I swear I saw them on the subway and on the streets. They freaked me out. Then we had a little mouse in the house. When the super left some fishy white "rat poison" that didn't do a thing, he threatened us that if there was one, there would be a whole pack of rats, and that the restaurant adjoining our building had closed because of rat problems. As if that didn't freak us out enough, our little rodent-visitor became a frequent sight, darting through the kitchen and under the stove or the fridge. We invested in mousetraps from the dollar store downstairs and a can of cheese whiz. We even named the little guy Voldemort--something to do with his huge ears and the coming out of the new Harry Potter book that summer. But when we actually watched Voldemort come out from under the stove, poke away at the cheese whiz on the trap, then go back under the stove, that was enough. Erin and Anne Marie guarded the stove while I ran back down to the dollar store and bought every old wooden mouse trap and sticky glue trap they had. We lined the floor around the stove with them and waited. And waited. And waited. And nothing happened.

So last night Jessica and I pulled out two of those dollar store mouse traps and seeing as how we are much too refined to own any cheese whiz, we slathered on some peanut butter. I of course used the rubber gloves and set the trap off a bunch of times on my rubber gloved fingers (those are mighty powerful springs there). Every time I walk into the kitchen I hope against all hope that the trap will be sprung and we'll find a mouse. Jess even became the bigger person by promising to take care of the fellow--only with careful thought of the shovel in the shed and the fact that we don't need to keep the used mouse trap.

Please, oh please, oh please...

Hooray for Grandad!

Publish PostA. Harold Goodman

14 July 1924 - 25 June 2007

My dear Grandad peacefully passed away a week ago, and we buried him yesterday. I have some very tender memories running through my mind and heart and am eager to share them here.

Families are as big as their family stories. As a budding historian and a graduate student, I have been trained to search for accuracy, to verify facts through primary sources. As a member of a beautiful family, I realize that our family stories may not be entirely verifiable--and if they are, often they lose a bit of their drama and power. These family stories provide me with a couple of important things: a sense of belonging--an identity with a larger group; an understanding of important family values--expectations, hopes, dreams; and an opportunity to participate--both in hearing and in telling our stories. Elder David A. Bednar said that "the home is the place where we cannot hide from who we really are," that home is potentially the most natural, most effective setting for learning the gospel because we find the truth about ourselves and we cannot hide from it. I want to share stories told by Grandad and about Grandad. These are stories that we will tell our children and our children's children. These are the reasons why we celebrate Grandad.

Last Sunday night, just hours before Grandad passed away, my dear cousin Arian had a dream. She dreamed that we were all gathered to say goodbye to Grandad. We believed we would see him unresponsive on a hospital bed, as he had been for the past few days. How surprised we were to see him come walking out the door, followed by GranNomi and our parents. He was beaming--full of light and life and beauty. We were so surprised that we shouted for joy. He had been healed! We celebrated this miracle, just as we celebrate his life.

Hooray for Grandad and sports. Although Grandad was only 5'8", he was a basketball star in high school with a strong jump shot. When he tried out for the University of Arizona Wildcats team, the coaches seriously doubted his ability. They required him to make 10 free throw shots, and he made every single one. They asked him to do it again, and he made every single shot. He made the team and soon became team captain. The newspapers dubbed him Buzz Bomb because of his ability to win a game from half court on the buzzer. The team participated in the 1946 National Invitational Tournament at Madison Square Garden. I love hearing stories about him sneaking into Uncle Gordon's high school basketball games at a time when it was embarrassing for a parent to be there. He always left early or waited afterword so as not to be caught.Grandad always planned baseball games at our family reunions and encouraged us in our sports--like the time when he allowed Marilee 5 or 6 strikes, even though Jennings threw down his glove in protest. My favorite sports memories of Grandad are the creative games he planned for us. After one Thanksgiving dinner when the grandkids were all a little too rambunctious for our tired parents, he would hold contests to see who could hold their breath the longest, or he offered a dollar for whoever could hold his or her nose to the floor the longest. We all immediately fell asleep. And the hours of playing dominoes, Hand-and-Foot, and the sometimes violent game of spoons. Grandad was our champion.

Hooray for Grandad and education. We loved hearing stories of his adventures at Duncan Union High School and the song, "Duncan Punkin' Rollers." Grandad's experiences at the University of Arizona and USC, where he earned his doctorate in music, have inspired many of us to pursue advanced degrees. We love hearing about the time an old professor got all mixed up and walked out the classroom door--into the closet--then all the students pretended to leave just to see what he would do. After hearing the sound of footsteps, he popped his head out and received applause from the class. Especially inspiring was his dedication and determination to make it through his oral exams.

Hooray for Grandad and music. We love the stories about how Grandad started violin lessons at the age of 8. When a boy at school called him a sissy, Grandad put down his violin case, punched him in the stomach, and said, "I'm not a sissy." At his first teaching assignment in Snowflake, the rough and tough high school boys considered him a sissy music teacher. Grandad took off his shoes and played football with them in an alfalfa field--beating them all. They all joined the band that year. Grandad used to come home from college to play his favorite violin piece for his mother--"Meditation from Thais." Great Grandad would say, "Harold, why don't you play something I'd like to hear, like "Turkey in the Straw." As a child, I remember going to my first concert at the DeJong Concert Hall with Grandad conducting. I was 3 and Lisa was 2, and when she saw him come out on the stage in his tuxedo tails, she yelled out, "There's Grandad! What is he wearing?" I received my first violin from him at the age of 3, and I loved our violin lessons. He organized the Stadium Avenue players for all the budding musicians in the neighborhood, and we had recitals once a month. I loved hearing stories about Grandad and his music service for the Church. One time, President Kimball asked him to direct the Tabernacle Choir. Grandad told him if that's what the Lord wanted him to do, he would. But, he said, there were more qualified people, and he would be happy to help find one. He did direct the Choir for an event at the Smith Field House. As chair of the Church Music Committee, Grandad headed the effort to put together the 1985 hymn book. He often told us stories about particular hymns and how they got in. After the first printing, all the mission presidents were gathered for a seminar at the Assembly Hall on Temple Square. The MTC missionaries came marching in, singing "Called to Serve," a stirring new anthem. Elder Packer leaned over to Grandad and said, "I'm sure that's in the new hymn book." Grandad said, "It will be!" They had to reprint and renumber everything.

Hooray for Grandad and the family. I grew up next door to Grandad and GranNomi, and we both had an acre of land and countless yard work. Grandad had an old green Dodge pick-up to take the prunings to the dump, and we always accompanied him with a stop at 7-11 on the way home for a treat. On our birthdays, he always sent a card with carefully transcribed music notation for the Happy Birthday song. I love the story of how many years ago, Grandad and GranNomi took their family camping with Aunt Nita, Uncle Ben, Melvin and Barbara. In the middle of the night, a bear attacked the tent. Grandad stepped out of the tent with his hands outstretched, scaring the bear away. He always protected his family. Always. Grandad was a fixer--when I was little, I thought he could fix anything. As I gerw, I realized his tools of rubber bands, crazy glue, and duct tape didn't always make everything as perfect as I thought they were. He also tried to fix relationships in his own kind, loving, forgiving way. We didn't always want to be fixed. The older I got, I realized that even if Grandad couldn't fix everything, I can. Grandad alway planned family reunions--with a baseball game, a hike, and a BBQ. We always had a testimony meeting. Following the example of patriarchs such as Adam, Abraham, and Lehi, Grandad always shared with us his belief in God and Jesus Christ, and eternal families. The Lectures on Faith teach us that after Adam became acquainted with God, he taught his posterity. Elder Bednar said, "Father Abraham was given the promise that through him and through his posterity, which is all of us, all the families of the earth would be blessed. How? By our bearing this ministry, which is the responsibility to proclaim the gospel, and this priesthood, meaning the saving ordinances of the gospel of Jesus Christ." We knew that family always came first for Grandad.

Hooray for Grandad and missionary work. Grandad had a larger family story--that we are all brothers and sisters and we have a Heavenly Father and Older Brother who love us. He wanted to share this with everyone he met--the security man at the airport, the postman, haircutter, and neighbors. Ezra Taft Benson said, "The Lord works form the inside out. The world works from the outside in. The world would take people out of the slums. Christ would take the slums out of the people and then they would take themselves out of the slums." That's how Grandad worked. I loved hearing stories from his time as mission president in London. One time he was assigned to drive President Benson and his wife from the Gatwick airport to the Heathrow airport. He practiced the drive to make sure he had it right, but the night of the appointment was dark and rainy. President Benson talked the whole way, with his face in Grandad's. GranNomi was in the back seat with Sister Benson, and she tried to engage President Benson in conversation so Grandad could find his way, but with little luck. He finally made it. I remember when they returned from their mission and spoke in church, he invited all the returned missionaries there to stand and recite D&C 4. I was completely impressed with the missionary spirit. As a result of his missionary stories, his grandchildren have served in England, Italy, Russia, Germany, Washington, and Idaho. He would send us cards with money in our currency, and we shared his stories with our investigators.

Hooray for Grandad and the temple. When Grandad served in the Provo Temple presidency, they had to do without his paycheck. They sold one of their cars and walked to the temple. When he walked past our house for his 5:00 am shift, he would always wave. The garden provided them with food--and as grandchildren, we always remember delight in the cherries, raspberries, blackberries. Josh and Grandad would always go to the garden to peel and eat a fresh turnip. Grandad taught us at an early age about temple meaning. I remember him teaching Lisa and me all about the meaning of the temple. We always heard about his experiences at the Atlanta Temple as he served part-member families and testified of eternal truths. He taught us the importance of temple marriage--first with his own example with GranNomi, his sweet bride. He sealed nearly all of my cousins. I gave him special instructions to find my husband and give him a gentle nudge, and to attend my own sealing one day.

Hooray for Grandad and his testimony of Jesus Christ. My favorite story about Grandad was when he was 19 and suffered from a ruptured appendix. He lived in southeastern Arizona and it took a long time to get him to the hospital. He suffered from peritonitis and was deathly ill for 3 months in St. Mary's Hospital. He was often unconscious and felt very alone, particularly at night. He would often sing the hymn, "Abide with Me, 'Tis Eventide." The chorus said: "O Savior, stay this night with me; Behold 'tis eventide." It was then that he felt the presence of the Savior with him, and he committed his life to serving Christ. I felt Christ with him as I spent time with him at the end of his life. I treasured the opportunity to care for him, to strengthen the feeble hands and the bending knees. I, too, felt the presence of the Savior as I learned how Christ served.

Hooray for Grandad. We have a champion on the other side. We are his champions here. Some of my favorite Grandad sayings are: "What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine." "We're all in this together." And most importantly, "A deal's a deal." We celebrate Grandad and we celebrate our family. As Grandad would say, quoting Moroni 9:25, "Be faithful in Christ; and may not the things which I have written grieve thee, to weigh thee down unto death; but may Christ lift thee up, and may his sufferings and death, and the showing his body unto our fathers, and his mercy and long-suffering, and the hope of his glory and of eternal life, rest in your mind forever."

If you have memories of Grandad, please share!

Blind Dates and other such nonsense...

You always have to try. You do--simply because you have hope and you know the Lord works in mysterious ways...

Alas, last night was just mysterious...

My cousin and her husband and boys moved to Springfield on an Air Force assignment in DC about six months ago. I've loved having family so close. Their good friends from their assignment in Italy live in their neighborhood and they've loved reconnecting. Well, because my cousins know me, a single Mormon female, and their friends know a single Mormon male, they thought for sure it would be a match.

I only agreed to it if we could all have Sunday dinner together. It was lovely--I enjoyed meeting this family that I've heard so much about, and I love playing with my "nephews"--Arian's Benjamin and Bryce. But the guy... he dated my roommate and I've heard many not necessarily pleasant things about him. We were all civil and enjoyed the evening with grace, but it was a bit awkward, for both of us, I think.

Here is what I've learned about being set up:
1. Many people think that if you have one thing in common, it would be a great set up:
They're both single.
They're both LDS.
They're both short (NOT KIDDING. THIS HAPPENED ONCE--I WENT OUT WITH A SHORT GUY WHO MAKES GUNS).
2. Blind dates can be extremely revelatory. You see what other people think about you by the people they are clamoring to set you up with. Sometimes that can be very painful.
3. It's always best to require a double date with whomever is setting you up. That way they can actually see the dynamics.
4. Often you can at least scratch it up to a GREAT story (and boy, do I have many!).
5. Sometimes you can meet some interesting people and at least expand your social circle.
6. Other times you just wish you could crawl into a hole.

They should move that rock...

This weekend I went to the Shenandoah Valley with a bunch of friends--many adventures. Many adventures--involving deer and headlights on dark, windy country roads, turning around several times ("I think we've been here before!"), NOT playing Twister ("I'm not old; I'm mature"), a near-midnight tavern run (It WAS the only food around--and it was good), star-gazing, s'mor stuffing, and pancakes with chocolate and strawberries.

The highlight, though, was hiking Old Rag. It was incredible--especially the boulder scampering. At one point we got stuck behind a rather large group of Japanese-Americans who for the life of them could not seem to figure out how to get up a rather precarious rock formation. I became a little impatient and said something under my breath, and the Indian guy behind us actually suggested that someone should remove the rock so people could get up the mountain. His comment floored me--does he want a tram and an ice cream stand at the top? Are national parks supposed to be Disneyland?

At any rate, I pushed and pulled and heaved and LOVED the physical exertion, the scampering, the conversation, the friends, and the view at the top. What a day! I even picked some more wildflower weeds to add to my gloriously-blooming peonies. Here are some photos to prove we made it. I'll post more when I get them from my fellow hikers...

I love Fireflies

There is a brief window of firefly season here in Northern Virginia. I didn't see any at all when I moved here last August and I was so disappointed--I grew up in the West without the magic of fireflies. I remember the first time I saw them when I visited my grandparents one summer in Atlanta and then years later in Missouri. And I loved them in Central Park on summer evening walks in New York. Apparently the show up here in the early summer, and I love them.

There is something remarkable about the haphazard flashes of light--unexpected and unpreservable. They are so temporary that their light produces a little burst of excitement and wonder. I feel like a little kid again, staring into the air, hoping and being so pleasantly surprised to see fireflies pop back and forth in the dusk. I want to bottle them up so I can draw upon their light later on, but I know it's to no avail. The firefly reminds me to live in the moment.

We are the Rising Generation

So I had a crazy opportunity on Friday... my good friend Laurel was in charge of an event here in Fairfax and needed help. I offered to act as a shuttle driver for the presenters, and Friday afternoon I found myself picking up Ardeth Kapp at the Dulles airport to drive to her hotel. It was sort of a surreal experience... I remember my golden days of Young Women when she was at the helm as the General YW president. I thought she was the greatest thing in the world--she had this amazing perception and vision with a sound foundation. I remember singing in the YW choir for the first Young Women broadcast in 1985 in the Tabernacle, and I remember being flooded with the Spirit and feeling one of my early first testimonies in a very powerful way. I also remember the balloon launching celebration--I even stayed home from a family vacation to attend. And I remember the bell-ringing celebration.

So after introducing myself to her, and hearing about her recent trip with her sisters to Canada where her brother received an honorary doctoral degree, I told her how much I admired her and that I was part of the famous broadcast. She gave me a hug right there in the car as I negotiated traffic on the Lee Highway and said, "Oh! You're one of my girls!" We talked and talked the whole way to the hotel, and I hope she didn't know that I had absolutely no idea where we were or how I was going to find the Fair Oaks Marriott.
Later that afternoon I drove Ardeth and Heber, her husband, to the venue, and we again chatted the whole way. Heber even offered some marriage advice: "Marry a rich man," he said. "Heb, did you marry me for my money?" Ardeth asked. "No," he said. "But it would have been much better." "What do you mean?" she asked. "What do you think about our marriage?" "Well, it just would have been better if we'd had money."

Making Weeds into Wildflowers

Last week I was in Missouri visiting my dear grandparents. Things are not looking so good there--my grandfather as a very aggressive cancer and is home with hospice, and my grandmother is struggling to keep up with her new nursing responsibilities as well as grappling with what the future holds for her. As I went running one morning along the country roads, I struggled with my own emotions and physical condition. But I began to see the weeds all around me in their color and fine detail. I got back to the house, grabbed a pair of scissors, a bag, and some gardening gloves, and I cut flowers as far as I dared wander into the thick undergrowth full of snakes and chiggers and ticks.

I really believe that when we can open our eyes to find beauty, we can participate in actually creating it. We invite it in. We need it, and we allow it to heal and to refine. Thank goodness for weeds that become wild flowers.

Braving the Cold

On Saturday morning we woke to snow--kind of crazy with all the blossoms and flowers everywhere. And the temperature plummeted. I think it was 80 on Tuesday, and then down in the 30s and 40s the rest of the week. Jess and I braved the cold to go to a baseball game Saturday night--the Nationals and the Diamondbacks. We don't need to really discuss the score, but we do need to discuss the fact that the D-backs have new uniforms. Who knew they decided to join the rest of the free world (or at least the league) and have red and white? While I'm not a fan of purple and turquoise, I rather liked the effect with the scary diamondback snake.

At any rate, we bundled up--layers of thermals, wool sock liners, big blankets, hats, gloves, turtlenecks, scarves, coats--and thanks to the hot chocolate that Jess had to walk all over the ball park to find, we stayed relatively warm. It was grand.

You're all worth it!

I am suffering from the worst allergies of all 32 years of my life. It started a week or so ago, and I figured the sneezing was kind of funny, but it quickly progressed to major congestion, headache, and a sinus infection. Well, $100 later, loaded up with Zyrtec, Nasonex, and Z-pak, I'm on the road to recovery... right?!?

So this morning to celebrate my road to recovery, I overcame my shortness of breath (yes, I run out of breath just by standing up and talking! I feel so old!), and my roommate and I went to see cherry blossoms! The jewels of Washington DC--and well worth the price. It was incredible... so many white ways of delight. We wandered along Haynes Point, then parked and walked along the Tidewater Basin. It was kind of chilly-but incredible. I guess only 20% of the blossoms are out right now, which means I must go again later this week. My favorites were the weeping white blossoms, but all of them were incredible. I even told the blossoms, with my plugged up nose, "You're all worth it!"

I'm including pictures of the great flowers in front of our house... and you'll see where the squirrels have wreaked their havoc on my tulips. If you know ANYTHING about how to stop squirrels, please, share!

Golda

My car's name is Golda, named after her color (a nice champagne) and the character on Fiddler on the Roof. She's great.

Well, was great. Last week Golda began sounding deep and throaty--you know--the good morning voice (thankfully without the breath), the congested feeling. I figured it was the muffler, but my pretend-mechanic friend figured it was the air filter. We tried all sorts of tricks, but nothing worked. He said not to worry about it, but poor Golda's voice haunted me.

Of course, I worried about money, how to find a trustworthy mechanic, and time. I discovered that another friend had a family friend from Vietnam who conveniently works at the Honda dealership. I took Golda in early this morning, and sure enough, Abee showed me the rusted out hole in the muffler. It looked horrible. I wonder if it's from all the road salt.

At any rate, within 45 minutes, Abee had replaced the muffler and given me his employee discount on parts, charging me only half for the labor. Bless his Vietnamese heart. I guess he only works one day a week now that he's back in school, and Wednesday just happens to be the only day I don't have class, so it worked out perfectly. I love that there are honest mechanics, that there are people eager to help and serve, and that I'm in the right place at the right time.

And Golda runs like butter now. Don't you all wish you could have a ride?

March Madness, or Spring Break JennyReeder style

I love filling out NCAA brackets. Every year I fill one out, and I don't really follow college basketball. I love choosing names and circling winners and striking losers. I love that it's all a game for me. My friend has two brackets: one by the head and the other by the heart. Another guy lets his son fill out a bracket according to mascots (who would win, a panther or a duck?). It's good times.

This week is my spring break. Instead of an exotic vacation to the beach somewhere, I decided (well, I like to think I decided when really it was more like a decision made for me in my graduate-ness--no money and the doom of 4 papers/projects due the first week in May) to stay here and work like a maniac. I did take a day off and went to Philadelphia with my friend Kelli. We hit the King Tut exhibit (definitely NOT worth $35, unless you count maybe $1 for every object you see!), then the small Rodin museum (which reminded us both of Paris--ah!), and up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. Then we walked down to all the historic sites--Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, etc.

Being the week before St. Patrick's day, we encountered a strange phenomenon: random runners wearing green prom dresses. We had to snap some shots. When Kelli asked what they were running for, they looked at her like she was crazy for not knowing and said, "We're running for Green!" The security guard at the Liberty Bell shook his head and said "They'll be drinking all the way through St. Paddy's."

The highlight of the trip, and the TRUE March Madness for me, was the Philadelphia Flower Show. I cannot express how much I love flowers. I love the color, the smell, the design. This show was amazing--apparently it's on the list of 1,000 things to do in your lifetime. The theme was Ireland, so many of the displays revolved around quaint Irish gardens. Some were a little over the top (one had wacky glittery shoes hanging in a dead tree with a leprechaun poem and another had a wedding party in the middle of a pond). I loved the window boxes, the lamp flowers, the variety and texture. I felt alive--grateful for God's creations and for what people can do with those creations.

2nd Grade Groundhogs Day

I have a very vivid memory of Groundhogs Day when I was in the second grade. My teacher announced that we would be making a little groundhog village out of paper. Being the little overachiever and perfectionist that I am, I immediately freaked out. I didn't know how to make a groundhog village! What was she thinking? I was only in the second grade, after all! How was I magically supposed to know how to actually create a groundhog, let alone a groundhog village? The audacity of it all! I believe tears were shed in my consternation.

My wise teacher kindly and patiently heard me out and quietly encouraged me to just try. Through my tears I scribbled out a little groundhog and then made a little house. Suddenly I realized that I could do better, and I added several features, like a mailbox and a windowbox. Before you can pause to see your shadow, I had caught fire. My groundhog village took off--I made a groundhog school, a groundhog hospital, a groundhog post office, a groundhog store, a groundhog library. By the end of the day, my teacher had to pry me away from my now expert groundhog village.

I've been feeling that same second grade panic again as of late. I have to create a website? I ask my digital history professor in sheer panic. But I don't know design! I don't know CSS! I don't know how to manipulate curves and levels in Photoshop! I just want to be a historian! How can you expect me to know what colors go together and how to create gradients and masks, how to use the right typeface to create an inviting ambiance and represent my time period?!? The audacity! I also have to write papers and read and complete assignments and maintain a busy social calendar and life a life of culture! How can you expect me to drop everything and EXPERIMENT? Who has that kind of time?

And yet there's a secret part of me that really does revel in color blending and texture--after all, isn't it like quilting? And I secretly could spend hours playing with fonts. So maybe my fear is really that I've found a new activity, one that I know I'm not very good at yet, but that I could be good. I'm afraid that I'll have to buy a new computer (no! not a Mac!) and the newest versions of Photoshop and Dreamweaver. I'm afraid that I will get sucked into hours spent hunched over my keyboard, digging through websites, creating digital groundhog hospitals and libraries. Who knows what this could start?

If only I had the energy of a second-grader... and my construction paper and crayons for tools...

Footloose, but not fancy free

After a restless night of tossing and turning (so many papers and readings and decisions running through my head), I finally got up this morning, anxious to get to work. I was planning on squeezing in time to go to the gym--at times like this I can be found with my latest reading, my head bobbing on the elliptical or the bike as I breeze through the pages and try to pump my body at the same time. But when I emerged from my basement room and saw such perfect running weather outside, I took off on foot.

It had rained all night and was supposed to rain all morning, but the sun was peaking through heavy gray clouds and warmed up the temperature all the way to 57 blessed degrees! Everything was wet--the trees glistened with tiny drops and I stomped through puddles in my old running shoes, the muddy water licking my lily-white legs. As I shed my long-sleeve T, I felt liberated and ran faster and harder. If only I could shed my other troubles... at least I got some great respite on the road.

Sierra rocks my world

This little note from my dear niece Sierra says it all. The crazy thing is that I know she just sat down and did this all by herself--no prompting or anything. Honestly. My sister, her mom, was just like that. I remember her writing these crazy entries in her journal when she was probably 8 that went something like this:

Today is MY day. Today everything is going MY way.

And she would go on and on. I love the confidence, the excitement, and the love in this style of writing--the firm expression and delight and hope in life.

And I'll scan and post the valentine Sierra sent me this year. It seriously made my whole month, just like this card.

Translation: Dear Jenny You are beautiful as spring time flowers! And as refreshing as the rain! Love Sierra!

There is nothing like the Finish Line Flourish. My roommate Jessica and I ran the George Washington Birthday 10K on Saturday. We laughed about paying $22 to run in 19 degrees cold, up and down, up and down a stretch of Eisenhower for 6. whatever miles. The course was supposed to wind through Old Town Alexandria or somewhere cool or something, but the recent snow storm created problems and left ice everywhere. So we literally ran a double loop up and down. It made things with the fast runners a little interesting--two police escorts created a nice path for them in the middle as they finished the race.

My favorite part is always the finish line. I don't know where the energy comes from--somewhere deep inside me--whenever I see the finish line. This course was a little tricky because I saw the finish line twice, but it was only the REAL finish line the second time, so the finish line flourish didn't happen until then. But this surge of energy comes literally racing out, and my legs just start moving and the rest of my body has to keep up with them. The blood courses and the oxygen pumps and I feel like a mighty moving machine. It really takes a lot of energy, usually when I'm the most spent, and I sometimes wonder if I'll be able to keep it up all the way through to the end. But I always do. And I'm pleasantly surprised at how strong I am and fast and how real my hidden energy reserves are. If only I could pull those out in the other areas of my life...

There is nothing like a full tank of gas. I'm talking literally, here, though of course there is a moral lesson. No, I'm talking about real life--being a student, not having a lot of money, trying to make every penny count. Part of that means really hoping for good gas mileage. And calculating every new tank. Lately I've gone down by up to five miles a gallon. I even got new tires--which weren't really in the budget, but extenuating circumstances (read NAIL) called and it really was time. Unfortunately, my spiffy new Costco tires haven't solved the gas mile problem, and I really didn't think I was pushing it too far with my low gas this morning. I think my car barely crawled into the gas station--my favorite in Fairfax, with usually much lower prices than elsewhere.

Luckily, I made it. Now I know, my sweet grandmother has always worried about me and has taught me to always have a half tank of gas in the same breath as to tell me to say my prayers. And I've always kind of laughed that off, thinking I'm a poor student and that I live paycheck by paycheck. Plus, there's something adventurous about living on the edge. But mark my words, there is nothing as beautiful as the relief that comes after I do make it, and my tank is full. I mean, with a full tank, I could drive all the way to Jamestown and most of the way back. Or just last about a week and a half on my student budget.

Last night, when I knew my tank was very low, I drove with my cousin and aunt on a little night tour through the District. We took my cousin's car so the boys' car seats would fit in the back, but I drove because I've been here the longest (and I can proudly drive into the District without getting lost). I noticed, though, driving my cousin's car, that her tank was full. And I realized how safe I felt. It was a huge relief--I knew that I could handle driving anywhere--or at least be clearly safe to make it to a gas station and refuel.


So yeah, I think from now on I'm going to follow my grandmother's advice.

Yes, it's true... it's official... it's a snow day. I have lived 32 years of life, a majority of them in Utah--the Intermountain West and the Everlasting Hills--and I've lived through the Blizzards of '05 and '06 in New York City--never a snow day among them. I move to Washington DC, there's a 1/2 inch of snow and the threat of ice, and after driving in to work for the afternoon, all evening classes are canceled. It's brilliant!

Part of me thinks it's wimpy. I want to protest. I've tromped through two feet of snow to take finals at BYU, and two feet of snow through the streets of Harlem to get to church. I've gone running in Central Park with a wind chill of 4 degrees (thanks to vaseline slathered on my face--it makes a great wind retardant). I've driven through the Rockies with 5 feet of snow (granted, I-70 was plowed). Where are the guts and muscle of the people of our nation's capital?

On the other hand, I'll be honest. I'm delighted. I honestly think it's a blessing--a true tender mercy. I'm exhausted and I don't know if I could make it through 2 1/2 hours of Clio 2 Digital History, then drive 20 miles home on an inch of ice at 10:00 at night. Instead, I am going to sit at home. I am going to read The Making of the English Working Class (I know, I know--you're all going to run to your nearest Amazon.com to order your very own copy!) for my Thursday class, and I'm going to actually watch a movie! On a week night! And go to bed early! I am so excited.

Meanwhile I look out the window and drink in the snow. All 1/2 inches of it. Maybe there'll be more in the morning--and maybe there'll be ice on the trees. I can't wait to wake up and see. Maybe work will be canceled tomorrow, too!

Oh, the comfort of food. Southern food. Southern comfort food. Last night my good friend Sue invited me over to her house for dinner. We're both so busy: she's a lawyer for the EPA and I'm a full-time graduate student. We see each other in passing at church and try to catch up as she runs up to play the piano for Primary and I rush off to our New Member meetings. So she invited me over to her house so we could catch up.

I think it was the nicest thing anyone could have done for me yesterday. Wednesday nights are the only weeknights I have without class. Of course I try to cram everything else in--yesterday I had a haircut and a paper due, not to mention work and reading like a mad woman. I didn't have time to even think about making dinner. Sue made, from scratch, oven baked fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits with strawberry freezer jam. And for dessert: cookies with oatmeal, chocolate chips, craisins, and cashews. Delicious. The warm food, the conversation, the combination of tastes--I felt well taken care of. It was delightful.

I think food does wonderful things. I love that as a culture we look to food for healing--when a new baby is born or when someone is sick or has passed away, we take over a plate of food. If we can feed someone something warm and tasty, we can contribute to relieving burdens. Of course there's always the strange concoctions that you really don't want to eat (why do we make so many casseroles?), but for the most part, food always tastes better when someone else makes it. One night recently my little brother wanted some leftover chicken noodle soup, and he wanted my mom to warm it up. She was busy--but Josh insisted that it always tasted better when she did it. So he brought her into the kitchen and physically moved her hand to ladle soup into a bowl and push the microwave buttons. It was definitely more work than it would have been to just do it himself, but I think he wanted the human connection even more. Of course Mom laughed and loved Josh and his quirky ways even more.

One of the kindest parts about my meal last night was that Sue packed up leftovers for me to eat today. I have class until late at night, so three days a week I end up packing both lunch and dinner. Today I'll have some fried chicken. I won't ask Sue warm it up for me, but I will remember her sweet service and effort to feed me. And I'll eat every last crumb. It'll give me the energy to get through a long historiography class tonight. So I think I'm hungry right now...

I love the sun. It's been cold and gray lately, and I've been doing a lot of reading down in my basement. This morning I had to go in to work earlier than usual, and I realized that in addition to being earlier than I anticipated, I also needed to finish reading the History of the Conquest of Mexico (grrrr... 456 pages... written in 1843... super small type). I headed over to the Johnson Center to the upper atrium in the library and found the room filled with early morning sunlight. It was actually interesting to read about Cortes and Montezuma and conquest and gold. The book turned out to be quite the romantic adventure (not as in love, but more as in adventure).

But more then that, I loved basking in the winter sunlight. I had forgotten the power of warmth and light. I know there's vitamin D or something and there's some chemical balancing out, but I yearned for the emotional warmth. I actually fell asleep up there in the ragged old cheap easy chair. It was one of the best naps I've had in a long time. The sun made all the difference.

It's all about perspective. This morning in my yoga class, I saw myself in the mirror in a new angle and was horrified. My downward dog looks so clumsy and awkward! All this time I thought I was smoothly gliding through my sun salutations, but as I peeked behind me between my legs, I realized that my knees are totally bent inward and my back makes more of a table than a nice inverted angle. I tried and tried to belly in, but my body just wouldn't slide into it like everyone around me. And I think my butt is crooked. I swear--I've never noticed so many weird angles where it should have been straight... It was all a bit disconcerting, and the stretch felt awkward and almost painfully weak.

But then a little later with a shift to the side, I caught myself in a very beautiful reverse triangle. I was in form, in line, everything going the right direction--you could have fit me between two glass walls just like the yoga instructor always says. Suddenly I was strong and capable and graceful. That's the perspective I want to keep with me.

I come from a family of sewers. Crazy quilters. My great grandmother, my grandmother, my mother, my sister, my cousin, my aunt--we are all drawn to fabrics and patterns and colors and textures. For weddings and babies, we quilt. We have to touch and create and cover and warm.

I grew up playing under the quilts my mom and GrandNomi quilted in her basement next door--I loved playing with the thumbtacks and scraps (I still remember the box with the yellow rose on the top where she kept thumbtacks) and looking at the underbelly of the quilt, helping them roll the boards over as they moved in and fetching thimbles and thread and whatever. I have a quilt made by my great grandmother hanging on my bedroom wall--with its wild, bright colors and cotton peeking out. I was told that she picked the cotton on her farm in southeastern Arizona. I remember walking down the long rows of cotton plants as we trekked from her house to the Gila River to play in the mud, and I wonder if she did the same thing to escape the summer heat.

My mom bought me a sewing machine for a birthday and graduation present five or six years ago, and it surprisingly has become one of my most prized possessions. It's not even fancy--something on sale from Sears--but I love it dearly. I felt separated when I had to leave it in Utah--no space in my Harlem apartment. I brought it home to Virginia with me on the airplane after Thanksgiving. I called Delta to find out if I could carry it on the plane--and after a long pause and wait on hold, I discovered I could as long as I removed the needle. It fit snugly in the overhead bin, and then some nice guy carried it for me along the concourse to baggage claim. I now feel like I'm fully moved in--at home--with my sewing machine.

I don't know what it is. It's not like I'm a stay-at-home mom, and I'm not super domestic. I don't have tons of time to sew. I don't make clothes or costumes. I had my love affair with my sewing machine before the whole new sewing trend with Project Runway. Over Christmas I helped my brother make a quilt for his girlfriend, and I loved watching him participate in this ritual, crossing the traditional gender divide with his own brand of breezy acceptance. I loved watching his rock-climber, river-running, skier hands pick through fabrics, cut, run them through Mom's old machine. I loved hearing how excited his girlfriend was to get her new quilt. I can picture her and him rolled up in it, keeping warm in their freezing cold house in the Colorado mountains.

Recently I decided to make a quilt for my bed that matches my great grandmother's quilt--and I picked out fabrics of the same patterns and colors. I never would have put them together on my own, but I feel her inspiration and guidance. And I realize how much I need her to play an active role in my life. So now, even as the semester starts and I scramble to stay on top of my readings and papers, I have fabric spread across my floor and I puzzle over their patterns. I come home from a late class with my brain so full of questions and critical theory and notes that I need sewing-therapy before I can unwind and go to bed. There's something soothing about cutting things apart and sewing them back together.

Something soothing, and something healing. I love that I can mend something or fix something at the flip of a switch. I love the feel of the fabrics, the comfort that this quilt will cover me and warm me, and that it is of my own making--with the silent and sure hand of my great grandmother--and in turn, my grandmother, my mother, my sister, my cousin, and my aunt. I feel their love. And it all stems from a Sears sewing machine.

I had the most divine meal in New York City last Saturday night. I was in town with a friend and her dad and sister, so we went all out.

Appetizers: butternut squash dumplings and edamame dumplings, spring rolls with ginger mustard and plum sauce, and wan tons.

Rice: vegetable rice with coconut curry foam (and pineapple!).

Vegetable: sugar snap peas with carmelized mushrooms.

Entrees: Kung Pao chicken with apple, shrimp and lobster chow fun with noodles, and the most amazing filet sirloin with wanton potatoes (hello--a cup of Lays potato chips, I swear) and butter garlic soy sauce. I seriously get chills just thinking about it. I have never had beef melt in my mouth like that--I didn't even have to chew! It was amazing.

Dessert: Kaffir lime tart--steamed yuzu souffle, candied citrus, and lemon custard ice cream; and a pumpkin souffle with hazelnut ice cream.

It was amazing. AMAZING. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it--so succulent and full of texture and flavor. My afternoon popcorn snack just doesn't cut it.

I think luggage says a lot about a person. I have a navy blue set, cloth, with a black and yellow strap that snaps around each piece. And my set has 4 pieces--the largest being so super big that only Jet Blue will take it without paying extra. I bought the set on a super BYU bookstore sidewalk sale a couple of years ago and it was served me well, thought it is beginning to show signs of wear. My smallest piece, a carry-on, suffers from a broken slide-out handle: you can still use it, but if you pull it all the way out, the metal handle slides right off. The other pieces suffer from typical airplane baggage-handler mishaps--a few scratches and slipped stitches here and there. And then the second biggest piece is becoming mishapen--I think from all the stuff I've stuffed in and sat on to zip closed. You all know what I mean.

Well, I started thinking about all of this when I flew home after Christmas. I sat at the baggage claim in Baltimore for what seemed like a really long time (doesn't it seem like the earlier your flight arrives, the longer you have to wait for your baggage? It's almost like the baggage handlers stick to the flight schedule and deny you of any excitement of actually arriving early), but I found myself purely entertained as I waited for my blue set. You see all sorts of course: from flashy Louis Vuitton leather bags to pink Disney princess little kids' stuff. I spied one suitcase that came out opened with clothes falling out. Now that's embarrassing. And my favorites are the old school hard suitcases with metal snaps. I saw a green one.

And the little ribbons and labels that people attach so they can know what is theirs at a glance. I saw rainbow straps, green Christmas ribbons, knitted pom-poms, professional black labels, etc. It always makes me wonder what's inside, if the owner is coming or going, why the need to travel, etc. While I'm sure many of those suitcases are full of dirty laundry, I hope some of them have seen grand adventures and good times.

When I flew home for Christmas, I was sort of stuck on the plane in a crowded row with a dad and his 2-1/2 year old and his 1 year old, with the wife and 4-week old baby across the aisle. At first it was quite fun entertaining the girls, but the fun wore off as they got tired and couldn't get comfortable to fall asleep. Covered in cookie crumbs and feeling slightly overwhelmed as an unintentional passenger-made-babysitter, I decided that it as much as I have wanted my own kids, it was ok to be single and free.

Today in church, a woman shared her thoughts and thanked the single women around here who had been able to help take care of her kids. She mentioned that they were often better mothers than she was, that when she was stretched to her limit, they seemed to step in with the extra energy to give her sons attention and love that depleted her.

I had dinner this afternoon with my cousin and her husband and two sons. I love how much her little boys love me. They gave me a million little hugs and kisses and showed me all their tricks and asked me to help them make decorations and to watch them play on the playground out back and to finish their dessert. When Bryce poured his mom's makeup all over the bag, I calmly stepped in and helped her clean it all up. I remembered the words of the woman at church and I was eager to help. On my way home, I called my nephew and niece. As I hung up, Sierra told me, "I love you a hundred percent." How grateful I am to be an aunt and a cousin and an airplane babysitter. While it's especially nice to go home to my own quiet, clean house, with adult conversation, I recognize that I can be a mother in my own way. I've always grumbled at the concept in my very single life, but I realize it's actually a unique blessing to me, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Except maybe a husband and my own kids. And only if they come one at a time in increments and they are clean and well-behaved. And they love me 100%.

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever
Last night I went with my mom and my sister to the traditional Christmas Eve pageant at church. Every year it's exactly the same--same songs, same narration, even usually the same people playing the same parts. Sure enough, last night we saw the same multicolored lights lining the pews along the walls and the same tinsel on the angels as they stood to sing "O Holy Night."

I think the most touching part this year was the very human experience. I have to say that I loved the little shepherd boy who totally winced when the spotlight came on, covering his face with his crook. And I loved that Mary came in on her solo early, right when the angels were supposed to sing. She sang beautifully, without error, other than the fact that it wasn't her turn. The angels patiently waited, and sang their song later. Then, after more narration and music, Mary's real cue came and she sang her lullaby again, not missing a beat. No embarrassment, no shame, no wrong note. It was great.

My favorite part, though, was the first wiseman. This is one of the strangest, crustiest old men in the ward. I couldn't figure out how they convinced him to dress up in a shiney gold paisley robe with a velvet turban on his head. But there he was, resolutely marching up the aisle with his pearls (I don't remember pearls in the original story, but they were pretty fancy). He didn't really keep time with the slow melody of "We Three Things" as the traditional script called. Instead, he glided along quite quickly, with his eye on Mary and her baby doll the whole time. I realized that for him, this little pageant was very real--I watched his eyes glistening in the light of the Christmas icicle lights hanging in the front of the chapel. He sincerely, genuinely wanted to bring something to the Christ child.

Suddenly the Christmas message is a very real one--it means everything that Christ was born in a manger, because then He understands the depths and depravity of life. He also understands and welcomes our sincere efforts to know and serve Him.

A dear friend of mine shared this Christmas message with me. It is beautiful art set to sacred music, illustrating the true and very real meaning of Christmas. http://beholdingsalvation.byu.edu/presentation/presentation.php

Merry Christmas. May you find peace and light and healing in the very human, real, genuine experiences of your life.

Ah... relief! I love the feeling of relief! I just turned in my final project for the semester, and I'm done. I finished my first semester of my PhD...

Relief is also the feeling I experienced when I woke up and realized my dream of being back in the MTC to go on yet another mission was just a dream. I don't even know where I was going... I was just wandering around the MTC in a bathrobe, trying to find a shower before the first orientation meeting, and wondering how in the world I could get my hair highlighted before I left...

So many ways to find relief...

I am a believer in red onions. I think a good red onion takes food to a whole new level. It makes a normal ham or turkey sandwich for lunch into a divine repast (add avocado, cucumber, pepper, and a good cheese and it's quite grand). So yesterday I made my roommate's famous bowtie pasta salad for our Sunday dinner, and I had nearly mixed the whole dish when I realized I had forgotten the red onion. With my penchant for perfection, I had to remix with the necessary red onion. I chopped a few slices and dropped them into my overflowing bowl. The more I chopped, the more my eyes began to sting. Finally, I had reached Red Onion Trauma. I could no longer see anything, and I had only added a few thick slices of diced red onion. My sinuses became as clear as they have ever been, and the only escape from Red Onion Trauma I could manage was a hot shower. The salad was a success. Here's the recipe:

Poppy Seed Bow Tie Pasta Salad
1 16-oz. bow tie pasta cooked and cooled
1 red pepper sliced (it's fun to use yellow and orange, too)
red onion sliced or chopped (watch out!)
1 can black olives drained
1 can mandarin oranges drained
*sugared pecans (your desired amount)
**poppy seed dressing

Divide dressing in 1/2. Add peppers, onion, olives, oranges, and 1/2 the pecans. Mix with pasta. Add remainder of dressing and pecans on top. Garnish with a slice of pepper.

*To sugar pecans, heat a non-stick pan. When pan is hot sprinkle sugar in pan. Watch for the sugar to melt. When all melted, add pecans and mix. Let cool.

**Poppy seed dressing
1 cup olive oil
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1 1/2 T. minced onion (again, beware)
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. dried tarragon
1 tsp. mustard
1 T. poppy seed

Blend ingredients all together in blender/processor for 2 minutes. Sauce will be a little thick.